The Biography of Donald Duck
by King Reepicheep
Summary: Donald Duck died on a Thursday. His friends try to find the killer, cope with the loss, deal with their own problems, and remember a friend in the only way they know how- continue his humanitarianism. T: Language, Violence, Character Death, Five Stages of Grief and Loss, Moving On/Coping, Relationship Difficulties, Religious Allegories/Analogies, Mystery.
1. Prologue

**The Biography of Donald Duck**

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**Prologue: The Night of October 12th**

October 12th

El Paso, Texas

Present Day

At midnight, the small bell in the church sounded ninety times. A mournful sound against the light rainfall. At the first bell, the grocery store with the flickering light and the meandering fly was busy with one customer, a man in his seventies, who had nothing better to do than to buy groceries for his niece, who came every Sunday. Today was Thursday.

On the thirteenth bell, an innkeeper and his wife closed the door for the evening. The rain made soft conversation with the tin roof of the place, the inn sign swayed back and forth.

As the twentieth bell sounded, an old woman wearing a green jacket, a blue shirt, and jeans carried a newspaper over her head in one hand, as if that could replace the umbrella that was at her side, and flowers in the other. She exited a florist.

A car, specifically, a 1997 Ford F-150, with its rusted rear bumper and a horrible DIY paint job drove speedily down Main Street just as the fortieth stroke of the bell sounded. The driver of this truck, Mr. Harris Q. Penny, was a man of little respect and regarded vampirism as the purest form of human nature. He hit every single puddle of water he could, just to see the look on people's faces, when they were covered in mud, dirt, and filthy water. Mr. Harris was a heavy cigar smoker and was wearing a yellow and white flannel shirt and a golden cross necklace at the moment. The rain beat steadily on the roof of his truck, brutally attacking it.

Mr. Harris drove past the bar, which was open twenty-four hours and had Western Nostalgia written all of it. The barrels of a gun fight, the smell of the gunpowder from the OK Carole, the hint of brandy and wine, beer and cigarettes, prostitutes and troubadours, minstrels and vices. There were no virtues to speak of, save one minstrel. Harris parked his truck right outside the place and entered.

The place was filled with drunks, whores, and incest. Harris took a breath and smiled as he waltzed his way over like a King to the bar.

Sitting in the middle bar stool was the virtuous minstrel. He was dressed as a sailor and had the sea air still on him. He was just passing through on his way to Southern California to visit friends and then head back on the sea towards Singapore. He had just returned from South America, specifically, Rio de Janerio where he visited a friend and his family. This friend of his agreed to travel to California when he was finished with business there.

Currently, this minstrel was staying in the home of Gonzales, surname, Pistoles. Panchito was taking care of his son, Pedro, who took after his father and his Uncle Donald religiously. Donald, the minstrel, ordered another bottled water (for he knew better).

The bartender, Hernandez, was the kind of bartender who didn't ask any questions, he just did what he was told.

Donald thanked the man and drank the water. Mr. Harris, who had been watching the duck intensively, sat next to him.

"One Budweiser please." Harris said. The bartender nodded, grabbed the beer and placed it on the counter.

Harris quickly opened it and as if he were suffering severe dehydration, drank the beer in one chug. He sat the bottle down. Donald looked over, he said nothing.

"What are you looking at?" Harris asked.

Donald ignored him, paid his bill and walked out.

"Hey!" Harris yelled, "I said what are you looking at?"

Donald looked back at him. "You have a mustard stain on your shirt, there's a slight drop of beer near your mouth and you had onions recently."

"Are you mocking me?" Harris asked, standing up feeling threatened.

"Harris," Hernandez said, "leave him alone. He doesn't need grief from you."

Donald exited the bar. Harris followed.

On the eightieth strike of the bell, Harris punched Donald in the groin. The duck did nothing but plead him to stop. The customers in the bar did nothing but watch. To them, this was prime time entertainment. Hernandez rushed out into the rain and tried to break the fight up. The bartender asked the age old question:

"Did you come here drunk?"

Harris smiled and laughed, "Why do you care, as long as you get your money and I get my drinks the world is fine."

"So why did you punch this guy in the face?" Hernandez asked.

"Because," Harris said, "I was drunk when I came here." He moved to strike Hernandez and hit him square in the jaw, knocking the poor man unconscious. Donald Duck ran down the street in the rain, wind, and mud and all he had to do was get to Panchito's shop where he parked his car which was down the street. Panchito owned a gun repair store. His motto straight to point and literal:_ I buy, sell, and repair everything related to guns._

Harris who saw the duck running, quickly started his truck and followed him. The only thing that went through this man's mind was: _ramming speed, ramming speed, ramming speed_.

On the ninetieth stroke of the bell, innocence was lost, the world grew silent, and Mr. Harris' truck drove down the street.


	2. Chapter One: Panchito

**WARNING (please read): This chapter is the saddest chapter out of any story that I have ever written. It was hard for me to write. **

**Also, each chapter will be from a different character's POV. **

**The first chapter will be from Panchito, the second might be from Jose, the third from Scrooge, etc. etc. **

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**Chapter One: Panchito, The Day of the Funeral**

When Donald died, the whole town went to the funeral. Death was a rarity, and when it did happen, we all expected it to be someone like Miss Emily, who was ailing and living in her house down the street with her assistant. We didn't expect it to be Donald. We didn't expect the murderer to be Harris Penny either.

I never really knew the man but he always had a look of suspicion about him, but he seemed to be decent. He paid his bills, he visited my shop, bought a 1997 Smith and Wesson hand pistol with a bit of repair needs. I told him that I would repair it free of charge, he refused the offer. I asked him why he was buying, it said it was for target shooting. I didn't believe him, you wouldn't necessarily believe a man who comes in with a cigar and claims to be an NRA member without any verification. I was cautious and kept my eye on him for about a week. Turns out he bought the pistol for target shooting. I sort of left him alone after that.

Harris was three feet from the casket. A rose in his hand, he dropped it into the hole where my best friend lay sleeping.

He was thirty-two.

Thirty-two. That's not a ripe year to go. That's barely anything in terms of living. It's cruel and inhumane, and the man who killed him dropped a rose on his face.

None of us wanted to leave the cemetery, we were all hoping, praying, that it was some cruel joke that God was playing on us. That Donald was alright, that he was safe.

When we finally mustered the courage to leave, we all decided to walk, the funeral precession vehicles followed us anyway. Most of us stopped walking in the rain after five minutes and got inside the black, brown, or silver Escalade's rented by Enterprise for the occasion.

I was the only one who walked on the sidewalk. The pavement was a golden silver as the street light reflection and the clouds of gray mingled with each other in the water puddles. The tin roofs of the houses and businesses pinged in what I pictured and still believe to be, a sadness that carried far more than tears and grief, but wanting justice, restitution. Jose, who was in the black car driving next to me, rolled down his window. He was in the passenger.

"Panchito," he said, "it's time to go home."

I didn't answer him. I just kept walking.

"Panchito," he said again, "get out of the rain, it's cold, wet, and you'll get sick."

"Petty excuses Jose?" I asked. "Is that what you're reduced to?"

"No, I just-"

"You what? Donald is dead Jose. Our friend, _my_ friend is dead."

"Don't you think I know that?" Jose said to me. I stopped and turned towards him. "He was my friend too, but you have to move on."

"I don't think I can just yet." I replied, I continued walking down the street.

"I'll be in town a few more days," Jose said, the car still following me. "come by tomorrow okay?"

I nodded and waved him goodbye without saying anything. I just looked at the sidewalk. The black Escalade took a left. The brown one followed me this time.

Not too far ahead there was a girl in a white dress, she was laughing and playing in rain puddles. I looked up and smiled, it reminded me of my son, Pedro, who was probably doing the same thing right now. Beside her was a woman. She was beautiful, the quintessence of the word you might say. She wore a pair of faded blue jeans with one of the seams unraveling, a hole in one knee, and a paint stain on the other. She wore white t-shirt and a blue jean jacket that told me that she was a woman of simplicity but wanted her daughter to be decorous. This woman, who I have never seen before, laughed and played with her daughter, being mindful of the road, not having a care in the world, reminding me of the life I used to have, the life I was trying to return to.

I am married, but not happily, to Clara Cluck. For the first couple of years, it was honeymoon and Main Street. Wine tastings, dancing for no apparent reason even when there was no music playing, watching romantic-comedies and horror films, going to the grocery store and seeing who could get all of the items on our list first and we could only do it by running and singing "500 Miles". She would always beat me. All of that changed right after Pedro was born. She started to become abusive, and it wasn't the side effects of the labor- it was long after that. She began to scream at me, at the kid and she threatened to kill us all in our sleep. About three weeks ago, I took her to a psychologist. Apparently, Clara had been abused as a kid, and this aggression was payback. After this appointment, she thought I was going to take Pedro to live with his uncle in Spain, so in response, she locked me in our broom closet. This past Monday, for today was Saturday, I told the psychologist about it. He told me to see a marriage counselor and to bring Clara to him for strict observation. I was on my way to the divorce attorney's office.

Ebenezer Scrooge McDuck opened his door. The car stopped. Scrooge exited. An umbrella in his hand he opened it and walked towards me. I stopped, saw him, and smiled. He embraced me:

"It's going to be okay lad." He said in his Scottish accent. He handed me the umbrella, "It's cold out, why don't you come back home with me, give you a chance to clear your head."

"I would Senor McDuck," I said, grateful that he was there standing in the rain with me. I handed him the umbrella back to him, his hat was getting wet, his eyes were turquoise pearls and they were pleading me to consider his offer. "but I have a son to take care of."

Scrooge nodded, "Bring him with you!" He placed his feathered hand on my shoulder. "I know things aren't good for you right now, believe me, this is going to be one of the hardest decisions in your life. If you ever need me, please let me know." He embraced me again, "I just want you to be happy."

He was like an uncle to me. I never spoke ill of him, he was always a respectable man of business and humanity. I embraced him back this time, I wanted so much to get into the car, drive home, get Pedro and get out this town, away from the memories and fear, but I couldn't. I was stuck in the rain.

Scrooge let go of me and got back in the car which waited patiently for him. The car then drove off and turned a corner.

The divorce attorney's office or "The Miniature Erechtheion" was located in a small white marble building on the end of Main Street. A caryatid was on the left side of the stairs. She was beautiful, radiant like the sun. Her eyes turning away from the atlas who was on the other side of her. He was built like a centaur and had the appearance of one. For a moment I thought he was looking at me, disowning me from his brotherhood or denying me protection. It was a feeling of loneliness.

Above the doorway of the building was the Spanish phrase: _Te imaginas. _

Translation: You Messed Up.

"Ah, Mister Gonzales, I've been expecting you."

"I'm a bit early for my appointment should I leave or-"

"No, you can go ahead and sit down."

The divorce attorney was a woman who was too happy about her job, it's as if she took joy in ending relationships. She wore a business suit with a yellow flower. A daisy, which reminded me that I needed to call her. She was probably crying in her hotel room by now.

"So, you wish to get a divorce?" She asked.

I looked at her name tag which was on the desk: Ann Desmond

"Did you drink coffee this morning?" I asked her, because there was no way that this woman was this happy about coming to work on a Saturday.

"Oh no," Ann said, "I don't believe in it."

"Then why are you so happy?"

"I just love my job. Now, the reason you want a divorce sir?"

If you were expecting me, I thought, then you should know my case.

"Abuse." I said.

"What kind of abuse?" She said.

"Physical, psychological, she's crazy to put it simply."

"I see," she scribbled something down on a paper and handed it to me. "You need to come in with your wife so we can talk about the issue." She pulled out a file folder and put divorce papers inside.

A cup full of pens was on her desk.

"Can I borrow a pen?" I asked. She nodded.

I took the file folder from her and filed it out. Both parts. Both parties. Yeah, I forged Clara's signature. Justice obtained.

"Sir," she said, "you're going to have to leave, by law, you've just committed a felony."

I stood up.

"Honestly Senorita Desmond, I don't care if I committed a hundred felons just now. My best friend was put in the ground less than an hour ago and my son is probably going through hell right now. If you'll excuse me, I have to fix my mistakes, so unless you want to stop me from walking out the door, I'll be seeing you later."

I took the divorce papers and walked out.

My house is nothing special. It's a small two story house from the 1970's. It was covered with white paneling that was beginning to yellow due to age. There were two rose bushes right beside the small porch. The mailbox was fell off the post as I ran across the yard and pounded against the door.

Clara opened the door still in her nightgown and having a cigarette in her hand. She took up smoking about three months ago.

I removed the cigarette from her hand and threw it across the yard.

"Hey!" She said, "I was smoking that."

"I know." I answered, "get out of my house."

"Your house, it's _our_ house honey." Clara said threateningly.

I rolled my eyes and walked in, she moved to the side and closed the door.

The place was a mess, it was never orderly by any means, but trash (beer cans, candy wrappers, McDonald's drink holders, and empty Wendy's cups) covered the living room floor as I were running a City Dump. Pedro was sitting in this mess, dressed in a flannel shirt and blue jeans watching television. _SpongeBob_ had just started.

I ignored the garbage for now and looked at Pedro: "How's my little man doing today?"

"Fine padre," Pedro said, he was learning Spanish at home and English at school. He was six years old. "wanna watch TV with me?"

"I would love to." I said. I cleared a space off the couch which was an old leather antique from my grandmother. I put on a face for my son and a completely different face for Clara who walked into the kitchen and grabbed a beer from the fridge. I never kept alcohol in the house. I was going to have a conversation with her later, the only thing that mattered to me right now was my son. We watched television.

Clara, who didn't have a speck of culinary skills, left me to do the cooking of dinner. I, having no idea what we had to eat, looked around and found the one thing I said I would never eat. Chicken. It was the tenderloins that you see in the restaurants. I never buy the stuff. I don't condone cannibalism. The only other thing that I could do was to make ham, turkey and cheese sandwiches.

"Um," Clara said, as soon as she saw her plate with a sandwich and chips. "what is this?"

"Dinner." I said as I sat down and prayed, Pedro joined me:

"Father, we give thanks for this meal and-"

"This has to be a joke right?" Clara said interrupting us, "You make me a sandwich?"

I ignored her and continued, "for the people we have in our lives. We pray for good fortune, good health, good friends-"

"This is ridiculous, I'm ordering a pizza." She stood up and moved for the phone.

"and a long life. These things we pray in your name, Amen."

I looked at Pedro, "Un momento Pedro."

"Está bien." He said.

"Muy bien." I replied and walked towards Clara.

"Yes," she called the nearest Domino's. "I would like a large-"

I took the phone away from her. "Lo siento, most apologizes, she won't be ordering anything."

"That's quite alright." The Domino's guy said.

"Have a good night." I said and hung up the phone.

Clara looked at me, giving me the 'what the hell was that for?' look.

I walked into the hallway and motioned for her to follow. She did so. I entered the bedroom. "Close the door behind you." I said. She did.

Our bedroom, was for some reason like the rest of the house, a trash heap. We had a California King with beautiful quilts and covers, homemade curtains from my Tia y Tio in Mexico, and more antiques from my side of the family made up the rest of the furniture. I stood in the middle of the room.

"Sit down." I said. Clara walked over to the bed, cleared off a spot and sat down.

"Did you have to clear a spot for yourself in order to sit down?" I asked. She nodded.

"Don't you think that's a problem?"

She didn't answer that.

"What was that back there about?" She asked instead.

"That," I said, "was you not being grateful."

"It was me being hungry." Clara said.

"No, it was you being spiteful, spoiled, rude, and not being a role model to Pedro."

"I don't have to be a role model, he's _your_ son." Clara said.

"My son? I believe that you bore the kid for nine months. So who's son is it really?"

"You're unbelievable!"

"And you're a slob!" I cried, "Look at the place, it's covered in trash. COVERED."

"Are you saying that I did this by myself?"

"Well it wasn't like this when I left this morning to go to the funeral. Why didn't you go anyway?"

"To watch Pedro." Clara said. "He doesn't need to be around that."

"You could've gone in my place, if anything I didn't need to be there." I said.

"No, he was your friend, you deserved to be there." Clara replied.

A knock at the door. "Are you guys alright?" It was Pedro.

"Mommy and Daddy are talking!" Clara yelled.

"Hey!" I shouted back, "¡No se dirija a él así!"

"Don't you start that Spanish shit with me!" Clara shouted with equal volume. "I can say whatever I want to him!"

"But he's not your son, you said so yourself," I said, "so what gives you the right to say anything to him. What gives you the right to be around him if you hate him so much?"

"I don't hate him."

"Mentirosa!" I shouted.

Clara slapped me. I partially deserved it. A red mark instantly appeared on my face, it stung a scar (also inflicted by this woman). Pedro, who heard the striking, knocked on the door again: "Are you okay Daddy?"

"Si." I said, "Daddy's okay."

Clara hit me in the same spot again, harder this time and also drawing blood with her nails. I fell to the floor. She kicked me in the groin once, twice, a third. I winced, but showed no signs of submission. Satisfied with my beating, she opened the door. Pedro was still in the doorway.

"Mommy and Daddy are having a conversation." Clara said with force. Pedro looked past her and to me. "Daddy!" He cried in fear seeing my blood. He ran towards me and hugged my neck. I embraced him. "It's alright," I said to him, kissing him in comfort, "I'm alright. It's just a scratch."

"Pedro," Clara said, "leave Daddy alone."

"No, you hurt him!" Pedro said.

"I said, leave him alone!" She stormed towards us. Pedro bravely stood his ground. I was so proud of him. Clara placed her hands on him and lifted him up off me. He screamed in protest.

"No, no, no! I won't let you hurt Daddy!"

"I'm going to hurt more that Daddy if you keep this up!" She said. She started shaking him. I stood up and punched her in the jaw. She let go of Pedro, sitting him down before she staggered and tripped over a small box of wedding photos. She fell to the floor and looked up at me.

"You are never allowed to touch my son ever again do you understand me?" I said, leaning down in her face. She nodded.

"I'm done, through, I won't let him grow up like this. Divorce papers are on the fridge."

"What? You can't do this to me!" She cried in protest. "I'm your wife!"

I picked up Pedro and walked out. "Not anymore." I said.

Five minutes later, we were out of the house. Donald would've been proud of me.

We drove to the hotel that Senor Scrooge and Jose were staying in. Scrooge watched Pedro while I went over to Jose's room. They were next door to each other.

"Panchito," Jose said as I entered the room and took a standard chair near the standard table both of which were in the standard position near the dresser with a television on top.

"how are you feeling?" He asked.

"Better but not great." I replied.

"Oh, how so?"

"I finally did it Jose, I finally told her off. I already signed the papers, all we need to do is make it official."

"Congratulations," Jose said as he walked over to the mini-fridge. "Jack Daniels?" He said offering me a beer.

"I don't drink alcohol Jose." I said.

"Oh yeah," he said walking over to the bed, "why though? I remember a time when you used to."

"That mi amigo is a story that involves a tuna sandwich and Cheshire Cat."

Jose smiled at the mentioning of Cheshire's name. "Does he know why?"

"Yes he does, but he's not going to tell you."

"Why is that?" Jose asked, taking a drink of the beer.

"Because he's the one who caused it." I said.

"Do you know who did it?" Jose asked.

"Who did what?"

"Killed Donald." Jose said. "Do you know who did it?"

I nodded. "Si, I do, his name is Harris Penny. Hernandez, the local barkeep up the street told me just before the funeral."

"Where is he?" Jose asked.

"Who, Harris or Hernandez?"

"Senor Harris."

"He's at home I suspect." I answered.

"Kill him." Jose said. "Kill him so we can move on with our lives."

"I can't do that Jose," I said, "it's on ethical grounds but he gets a fair jury of his peers."

"So what, he killed Donald!" Jose cried. I nodded, as much as I wanted to end it now and get it over with, something in my head told me to wait.

"What are you going to do?" The parrot asked.

"Be the good private investigator and put on my sombrero." I said. Jose knew what that meant. He was a criminal defense lawyer, which basically meant that he could get me out of anything.

"I can get you out of anything Panchito," Jose said, "kill that bastard!"

"I can't Jose, think about it. Mexican kills white guy for revenge. Do you know what that looks like?" I asked.

"Bad news." Jose said. "What are we going to do for closure? Sit and wait around doing nothing?"

"For now, yes, that's exactly what you do." I said. "Don't worry, there's going to be justice in the end."

I stood, shook the parrot's hand and left the room.

As I was about to enter Senor McDuck's room, I saw Daisy come down the hallway with two bag of groceries. She was apparently staying here too. The one bag contained a loaf of bread, a can of tuna and some tomatoes. The other some celery, cabbage, a ham and three boxes of cereal. She was having trouble and tripped over her high heels. The groceries spilled all over the floor along with her.

"Oh no, I, Donald!" She called. "Can you help-" she stopped herself, realizing what she just said and cried tears.

I rushed over to help. I bent down and picked up as many things as I could, for the bags were ripped. Daisy picked the rest up but placed them back on the floor and tried to curl up in a ball, she was still crying. I sat down the groceries next to the other ones and did the only thing I could do, I wrapped her in my arms and started singing:

_"Oh Danny boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling. From glen to glen, and down the mountain side. The summer's gone, and all the leaves are falling. T'is you, T'is you must go and I must bide. But come ye back when summer's in the meadow. Or when the valley's hushed and white with snow. t'is I'll be there in sunshine or in shadow. Oh Danny boy, oh Danny boy, I love you so."_

Daisy looked at me, her eyes filled with salted water and a glimmer of hope. I sang "Danny Boy" because I knew more than anybody else, that it was Donald's favorite song to sing when he was depressed. It was the simplest kindness I could do for her and I could tell in by the way she looked at me that she needed those two extra minutes with Donald. Those two extra minutes. I was just happy I could assist, because truthfully, I needed those two extra minutes too.

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**The beginning of this chapter was inspired the short story: "A Rose for Emily" by William ****Faulkner**


	3. Chapter Two: Jose

**Chapter Two: José, The Day of the Funeral**

To be honest, it should've been me. It should've been me who got ran over by a car, or shot in the face. We honestly don't know what happened to him. That's the sad part. We don't what happened to Donald in a mere five minutes of his life when he ran down a street in the rain. It should've been me though.

I was there, I was out, and I saw him running. I just thought he was trying to get out of the rain. I was smoking on a porch of one of those flower shops. An old woman had just left. I was about three seconds from going over to Donald when I saw the truck speed by like a Boitatá, slithering its way towards a helpless victim. I didn't see the driver's face, it was too dark, I was probably stoned, and delusional anyway so I just thought nothing of it.

I thought nothing of it, of Donald. I will never be able to live with myself because as he ran past me, he saw me, and for a moment, gave me those eyes begging me to deliver him. I responded too late and too slow. My cigar was more important. I had to finish it, I had to feed the addiction, the horrible ash filled addiction that had taken my lungs to cancer about six months before. The doctors give me a year.

When I heard the crash, I thought it was Donald being himself. A goofball in a sailor suit who was already ready to get back up. I heard my name being called, in a frail, angelic voice, that spoke of mercy, hoping that I would answer. I didn't answer. My cigar was more important. I took one last draw as he took one last breath.

When I did go out to the sidewalk and walk towards Panchito's shop, I pulled out another cigar, placed it my mouth and pulled out my lighter. My umbrella was, for once, serving it's practical use. I was about to feed my addiction again when I saw him.

Donald was a Shakespeare tragic player in front of a stage. The shirt was torn, the back was buckled up against a barrel, his eyes, which were blue diamonds, lost their shine. His face was fearful, as if he were taken aback. I wonder what was going through his mind, the moment he knew that this was to be the end. He uttered my name, softly, sweetly, no quarrels with it. That's what he did. I wasn't there to witness it, I was too busy smoking to care!

A messenger bag, which I assumed was on Donald's back was in the street, in the mud. I walked over to it because it lay open. I smiled a bit, a bittersweet memory for me. In the messenger bag was a bottle of Miolo Reserva Cabernet Sauvignon Red Wine from 2010 and Monte Xanic Red Wine from 2004 were wrapped securely in brown paper. Also in the bag was a copy of Journey's _Escape _album, my favorite album, a Bible, and a box of Mexican candy.

The truck was nearby on the road. It appeared spotless. The driver stirred a bit, opened his door and fell out of the car, but like a clever drunk man, stood up and grabbed the door before his face impacted the pavement. He pulled himself and wobbled a bit, his boots a bit off as if he were just naturally unbalanced.

I put the messenger bag on my shoulder and walked over to him. My instinct told me kill him, but I repressed it as I saw something that I guess nobody else would. A man who had no remorse left, so even if I wanted to, he wouldn't respond. He was by all means, a sociopath. I'm not a psychologist but I know of one in town. The man looked at me and smiled.

"He got what was coming to him."

I still had the cigar in my mouth, I handed it to him.

"Do you have a lighter?" He asked.

I didn't answer him, I just closed my umbrella and jabbed him in the stomach. He keeled over, dropping the cigar in the mud. I didn't care.

"What the hell was that for?" He cried out. I pushed him into his truck and told him to get out of town before I come to my senses. The man nodded and climbed into the truck and drove off down the road, disappearing into the night as if he were a part of it.

I walked over to Donald, his eyes were open. I reached over and closed them. I tried to imagine that he was sleeping, but how could you when you know the truth? How could you try and lie to yourself? How could you live with that- the guilt that you could've done something about it. I looked up in Panchito's window, I remembered that somewhere he kept a CD player. He always listens to music when he worked. I walked over to the door, jiggled the lock about three times before it registered that the door was, as it should be, locked. I patted myself down, remembering that the rooster had graciously given me a key to the place. I pulled out my key ring (which had about fifty-eight keys on it), found the right one (miraculously, because they all looked the same) and opened the door.

The darkness of the place reminded me of my sadness and my lungs. Both were dark, both were endless and incurable, and both were starting to take a toll on my spirit. The hunting rifles, hand pistols, and other assortments of Panchito's fetish looked at me with malevolent faces, as if I caused the world to end for them. For they too knew Donald well. The duck knew every single one of their serial numbers, the model, make, all of that. I only knew that they were guns.

Panchito kept his CD Player on conveniently on the counter. I made sure it was plugged in first before I put in the disc. I played the third song on the track list. I sang along with Steve Perry. Panchito would sing the first verse usually:

_"It's been a mystery, but still you try to see. Why something good can hurt so bad. Caught on a one way street, the taste of bittersweet. Love will survive somehow, some way."_

Me and Donald would join in at the chorus:

"One love feeds the fire, one heart burns desire, wonder who's crying now?

Two hearts born to run, who'll be the lonely one? Wonder who's crying now?"

Then I remembered something, the next part Donald would usually sing. I stood silent for it out of respect.

_"So many stormy nights, so many wrongs or rights. Neither could change their headstrong ways, and in a lover's rage, they tore another page. The fightin' is worth the love they save._

"One love feeds the fire, one heart burns desire, wonder who's crying now?

Two hearts born to run, who'll be the lonely one? Wonder who's crying now?"

I would normally sing the next part:

"Only so many tears you cry, 'tis the heartache is over. And now you can say your love will never die. Whoa, oh!"

The chorus followed after that.

I didn't bother to sing it again, I simply turned the CD player off and left the shop.

My car was parked near the florists shop. I decided that I would go back to my hotel, for I was visiting out of Donald's request. My business down in Brazil could stay there and it would be waiting for me when I returned, besides I needed a vacation.

The plan was to go out to lunch with Donald tomorrow, then to a movie that we both wanted to see with Panchito. Guess that can't happen now.

As I passed Donald again, I looked at him again. It was even more tragic than the first time. I picked up my friend, holding him like a babe and walked him back to my car in the same path that Donald took to get from that place to wherever he started from. Symbolic of me I know. The rain fell softly on me, I remembered that I hadn't cried yet. I wouldn't be able to tell anyway, the rain masked any sort of tear from my visible sight. I tasted salt moments later. I was balling like a baby.

When I got into my car, which was a 2012 Citroën C3 Aircross, I placed Donald in the backseat, buckled him up, pretending for a moment that he was still there. I made the sign of the cross, before I closed the door. I got in the driver's seat and slowly made my way to church, for I was acquaintances with Padre Tomas DeLuca.

The rain hit my windshield, the pitter patter and dripping made me realize that I wasn't alone. All across the world there was someone who looked up to mi amigo who was in my backseat. They had no idea what happened to him. I did, or at least, I think I did. He got hit by a car. I wasn't going to base my grief or guilt over assumptions though, I wanted an autopsy done first.

* * *

The church was Spanish: It had a Spanish pastor, a Spanish name, and was Spanish in style. It was the only building in town with baked walls and thatched roof. The steeple had a small bell in it. The church's name was Saint Maria but it wasn't called that. It was La Iglesia de Los Ángeles. Church of the Angels. The reason it was called that was simple:

About a century ago, a girl died on the same street in almost the exact same place that Donald died. Her father, who was with her at the time, carried her down the street to this church. The preacher, who was the father's uncle asked what happened to her, the father said that she had been sick with tuberculosis.

'We were out shopping for a dress, she was to be the flower girl in her sister's wedding.' The father said.

'She died because of the disease?' The preacher asked.

The father nodded. To be sure that it wasn't murder, the preacher had the father take the girl to the undertaker, where it was confirmed that tuberculosis had caused this girl to die.

She was pretty from what I've been told and that her favorite bird in the world was a turtledove. The death was a shock to everyone because the thought that tuberculosis problem had been taken care of, that it only happened in the cities out east and on the west coast. Nobody expected it really. Not too long after people started to go crazy, they began to fear every single person that coughed or sneezed. I guess that's why there are so many doctor's in town and only one church. People never left the house. Doctor's were like rabbits, and sermons were short.

About a month or so after the girl's death, another life was taken. A little boy this time. Same reason. Same spot. Same case. It was here that everyone thought it was a conspiracy, that someone was targeting their kids or something. The townspeople pleaded for the doctors and the church to come with a reason, some sort of explanation. History has a funny way of repeating itself I guess. The doctors and church came up with nothing.

In desperation, the mayor called in a doctor from New York City, Doctor Mallard, who was working on a tuberculosis vaccine at the time. Mallard tested it on people and it worked. Soon after that the fear was gone and the church acquired two turtledoves.

'For double symbolism.' The preacher said, 'To represent the Old and New Testament, and to commutate the children.'

Every year on the anniversary of their deaths, the doves are released and they return three days later. Every time.

* * *

I walked up the church steps and lightly kicked the door with my foot. My feet were covered with mud and dirt so I wiped them off as best I could.

Tomas opened the door.

"Ah, Senor Carioca," he said, "so good to," he looked at me closer, "come inside."

He didn't bother to ask any questions, he just prepared the body. He knew me and Donald well enough to know that I would never do anything to hurt him.

As he was doing his work in the back room, I stood in the sanctuary. It was small, maybe about sixty people could fit in it, but all the love in the world was there. The lights that hung on the ceiling casted rays of brown and gold which reflected beautifully on the clay walls. The altar was simple but worthy. A crucifix with the depiction of the Savior was on the back wall. Candles were placed on wooden shelves and the pedestal had a Bible on it. It was open to the first chapter of John, I know because I walked up there to look.

I skimmed down and read the first paragraph to myself but read the fifth verse aloud. It spoke to me the loudest for some reason:

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.

"That's a beautiful verse."

I looked over and Padre Tomas emerged from the hallway and looked at me with a smile on his face.

"So simple and true," he said, "a simple truth that we often forget."

I nodded and walked over to him. He moved into the pews and asked me to sit down. I did.

"Have you heard the story of La Iglesia de Los Ángeles?" He asked.

I nodded, folding my hands as if I were in prayer, but really I was in deep thought. I was trying to piece together everything. It just wouldn't make sense why anyone would want to kill him.

"Do you know why this church is called that?"

I nodded, "Is it because of the children?"

"Yes, but it's also because of the people who come here. You see the father was the angel in that story as well as the girl. She already was an angel anyway, but you see it was the father who was changed that morning. He knew that a simple burial would not suffice. He had to do something more for her. Just as you have done here tonight. You saw your friend home."

"I don't feel like an angel." I said.

"Most of the time you won't." Tomas replied. "Most of the time you'll forget that you even are one, but when the time comes, you'll remember and then you'll know."

"I'll know what?" I asked him.

"What you were meant to do José."

I nodded, I looked up at the crucifix and all around the church. The warmness brought forth a wave of sympathy and understanding towards me. It's as if someone was watching over me. I cried my tears, which was not because of Donald, but because of myself, what I had become and what I had done to my friends.

I know it may not seem like it, that or difficult to believe, but there was a time where I was a real asshole to a lot of people.

* * *

It started back in the 1980's where nobody really had any sympathy for anyone. I was a young, wanna be thug who's only option at the time was the drug business. In the inner city, no matter what city, you basically have two options, drugs or schooling. My parents couldn't afford the later.

Mom was addicted to crack-cocaine, Dad was a smuggler of powder and hemp. I was on the verge of becoming a jailbird (no pun intended) prodigy. I didn't attend school very much, only on the first day and field trips. Most of my time was spent out on the streets of Rio de Janerio where drugs were sold on every corner, prostitutes, hookers, and hookah bars littered back alleys and subway stations. I was a drifter, the moss on the rolling stone, a kid trying to survive and earn his keep. The code of the streets was all I could live by, and it was all I did live by for a long time.

Mom died from the drive by when I was eighteen, and Dad began to get abusive so I ran away from home as soon as I hit nineteen. I didn't leave the city, it was the only place I knew, it was the only place I could go. I was trapped inside of a system of sex, drugs, and murder. It began to take control of my being. One night in particular was significant for me in those deviant years.

It was November 12th, 1987, I was twenty-two years old and a real dick (literally and metaphorically) to a particular woman named Megan. She was a tourist. In three hours I took away from her against her own will something that didn't belong to me. She will, for the rest of her life, remember that I took that joy of waiting, of finding the right person. Instead she got a twenty-two year old parrot who was going through hell. Dad died a month before and I was struggling to feed my addictions. I was on crack, heroin, speed, and methamphetamine.

I was a deadbeat.

I realized that too later. One year after that November evening, I killed a kid for a quarter. Twenty-five cents. I killed a kid, a nine year old boy for twenty-five cents. I've never been able to live with myself because of it. I went to court but I was acquitted- I plead insanity for my lawyer's sake. My personal preference was the electric chair, I wanted to die. Hard to believe it but it's true. I wanted to die in prison or be shocked with volts. But the court decided against it. I alluded the system.

I attended the kid's funeral. I lived with the family, made amends, they even did me a favor and put me through rehabilitation. They knew I wasn't a bad bird, just a bird with problems. I'm still dealing with that. I'll have that hanging over me for the rest of my life I suppose.

In 1990 I was sent to prison for solicitation of drugs, specifically heroin. This time I wasn't so lucky. I wasn't acquitted and was sentenced to life without parole on two counts of drug trafficking and attempted murder. I took my case to court but the topic of my release was never discussed. At the time of my trail, I had been in prison for about a year.

I met Donald in 1994. He heard about me in the papers and thought he could help me. Like most people who have been in prison (for more than three years like me) I was skeptical at first, but he had a pretty good lawyer (from Uncle Scrooge's money) and bailed me out, the court cleared me of all charges. Donald didn't even know me very well and he saved me.

I was in prison for a total of 3 years, 296 days, 17 hours, and 11 minutes.

Donald saved me. He got me out of that. I'll always be in debt to him and his family. I made that promise as I walked out of the prison gate.

Even though I took up cigar smoking (in 2000), Donald was always there for me. He took me to rehab sessions (which I am still taking) and even took me in when I was trying to find a job. When I was with him in his house, he didn't ask questions, he didn't care that I smoked, he didn't care that I occasionally drank wine. He enjoyed it to.

He was my best friend and I wasn't there for him.

Out of all the times he was there for me I wasn't there for him.

So you could imagine that I started crying again.

Tomas coxed me into sleeping in the church for the night. He told me that the funeral would be the next available date, which was Saturday.

I called everyone I possibly knew the next morning.

* * *

When Saturday came I brought Donald's messenger bag with me.

The precession was silent. I noticed that the man who was in the truck was there. He had a red rose in his hand. I looked over and saw that Daisy was crying her eyes out. Panchito was an unmoving statue. He just took it all in, showing the only emotion he could, extreme sadness but he put on a straight face.

Scrooge was in the back, he was praying softly to himself. The nephews were not present. They didn't need to be. It would be too scaring, too sad, and too emotional for them to bare. I was having trouble myself as I wanted to get down my knees and throw myself in with him. The man in the truck dropped the rose.

Slowly and with grace, it fell into Donald's arms, I imagined, the rose was beautiful as the rain, which continued on from two days prior, fell on it, lightly touching the pedals as droplets of the sweet water fell onto the casket.

When he was in the ground and the ceremony over we all stood in several minutes in silence. The world had ended for us. The capacity of the room in which humanity was in, in the hallway of the universe in the House of God had just decreased by one.

We got into the vehicles, all except Panchito, who was walking down the sidewalk in the rain. I told the driver, who was Horace, to slow down a bit and follow him. He did so. I rolled down my window.

"Panchito," I said, "it's time to go home."

He didn't answer me, he just kept on walking.

"Panchito," I said again, " get out of the rain, it's cold, wet, and you'll get sick."

"Petty excuses Jose?" He said. "Is that what you're reduced to?"

"No I-" he cut me off.

"You what? Donald is dead Jose. Our friend, _my_ friend is dead."

"Don't you think I know that?" I said, "He was my friend too, but you have to move on." I said that to make myself feel better, to make me feel like that I had done so already. I realized that I was far from moving anywhere. The closest motion I was doing was moving forward in the car, even though I wanted to go backwards.

"I don't think I can just yet." Panchito said to me.

I don't think I can just yet either.

"I'll be in town a few more days, come by tomorrow okay?" Although I didn't want to leave, my work required me too. My vacation was almost over. I was half tempted to call my client and tell him that I won't be able to make it. There was a death in the family. If he asks who, I'll tell him it was my brother.

Panchito walked down the sidewalk in the rain towards the divorce attorney's office.

* * *

When I got back to the hotel I straightened the room up, did a few paperwork details, watched some television and took a nap filled with periodic sobs.

At seven-thirty, a knock was heard on my door. I got up and opened it. Panchito stood in my doorway.

"Panchito," I said to him as warmly as I could. He took the chair next to the dresser and television. "how are you feeling?"

"Better but not great." He said.

"Oh, how so?"

"I finally did it Jose, I finally told her off. I already signed the papers, all we need to do is make it official."

"Congratulations," I said as I moved over to the mini-fridge. "Jack Daniels?" I asked, offering him a beer.

"I don't drink alcohol Jose." He said.

"Oh yeah," I said walking over to the bed remembering that little detail. "Why though? I remember a time when you used to."

"That mi amigo is a story that involves a tuna sandwich and Cheshire Cat."

I smiled at the mentioning of Cheshire's name, he's a good fellow, a loyal friend. I told him about the funeral but he said that it would be 'Too heartbreaking for me to see him go. I was his cat too.'

That's what I loved about Cheshire and Donald. They had a relationship. Cheshire considers his friends to be his and calls them his 'cohorts in mischief' as if that's supposed to mean something. With Donald though it was different. Cheshire called him: 'My greatest ill-tempered therapist.' I smiled when he told me that because that's on what he was to me too.

"Does he know why?" I asked Panchito.

"Yes he does, but he's not going to tell you."

"Why is that?"

"Because he's the one who caused it." He said.

"Do you know who did it?"I asked, changing the subject.

"Who did what?"

"Killed Donald." I said. "Do you know who did it?"

Panchito nodded. "Si, I do, his name is Harris Penny. Hernandez, the local barkeep up the street told me just before the funeral."

"Where is he?" I asked wanting to know so that way I can personally do him in myself.

"Who, Harris or Hernandez?"

"Senor Harris."

"He's at home I suspect." He answered.

"Kill him." I said. "Kill him so we can move on with our lives." That's not what I wanted to say. I wanted to say, 'If you don't, then I will.'

"I can't do that Jose," Panchito said, "it's on ethical grounds but he gets a fair jury of his peers."

"So what, he killed Donald!" I cried, not believing what I just heard. Panchito wasn't going to kill this man on account of a jury that will, no matter what find him not- guilty? That's the criminal investigator in him I guess.

"What are you going to do?" I asked him.

"Be the good private investigator and put on my sombrero." He said. I had no idea what that meant, but something told me that he was planning on killing this bastard anyway. He was just waiting for the right moment.

"I can get you out of anything Panchito," I said, remembering my occupation as a criminal defense lawyer, "kill that bastard!"

"I can't Jose, think about it. Mexican kills white guy for revenge. Do you know what that looks like?" He said.

"Bad news."I replied. "What are we going to do for closure? Sit and wait around doing nothing?"

"For now, yes, that's exactly what you do." He said. "Don't worry, there's going to be justice in the end."

He shook my hand and walked out with a pity smile on his face.

When I heard Panchito sing Danny Boy, my weights felt a little lighter. Jacob Marley hadn't come to warn me yet. I closed my eyes during the song, which was faint because of the closed door and exhaled. I smiled a bit:

"Adios amigo." I said and prepared myself for much needed sleep.


End file.
